The Last Vow
by MrsCumberbatch
Summary: The death of their child drifts them apart. One of them finds the tears are the only solution. The other meets Detective Inspector Victoria Trevor. AU. A missing scene from "Six Different Lullabies" (chapter 22).


**This is more or less a missing scene in "Six Different Lullabies" (chapter 22 to be exact). I'm afraid you'll need to read that one or at least be a bit familiar with the story to know what this is about. This missing scene wouldn't leave my head and two readers pointed out they'd like to know more about Sherlock and Victoria Trevor so here yo go. **

**There are some things I wished I had explained differently, or developed - missing scenes. If anyone wants me to write more "missing scenes" you'd like to see just let me know. I'd go on with these characters forever because I love them, but it's up to you and if you really want to read more about it.  
**

**You'll notice English isn't my first language, so I apologise beforehand for my mistakes.**

* * *

He had always hated cemeteries. He had always found them pointless, dull, boring. However, when one of his children was taken to one to be there forever, Sherlock started finding them almost heartbreaking places to visit. He often wondered why it was always either raining or cloudy. It seemed like a very bad film location, one of those he had seen his daughter working at in some of her films.

Every time he stepped into a cemetery he remembered the first time he visited one of them. One of those old family members he just couldn't remember the name died and his father insisted the whole family should go. Sherlock remembered that day because that day he was to have visit Jane. She was to help him with his literature homework when they had to go and pay their respects to someone he had never met before. Forty-something Sherlock Holmes remember himself being a sixteen year old boy, tapping his foot angrily, almost tiredly, wishing he could be at his friend's rather than there.

Thirty years later he was visiting the son he missed with all his heart and wished hadn't died. The Detective could still recall those nights in which both twins cried and both had to be nursed. David was so fragile, so little in his arms every time he folded his arms around his thin frame. Sherlock could remember those nights when, after a change or maybe a bottle, David would peacefully sleep in his cot.

Now, twenty seven years later his son was buried six feet under. When he was a baby, there were toys and stuffed animals around and inside his cot.

Now there's only flowers and pictures on his grave.

David Watson Holmes was the child Sherlock wished he could have spent more time with. As a baby, he barely cried and he only did so when he needed a change or when he was hungry. As the years passed, David grew independent of his parents and while Benedict, his twin brother, started taking his first steps around the coffee table which he held for support, David sat quietly on a corner. Benedict liked painting the walls with crayons, a thing none of his older siblings had done before while David sat on the floor and stared at the violin his father left on the table. The detective realised it took them years to consider David may suffer from some kind of developmental delay. They visited doctors, lots of doctors, and all of them said David didn't suffer from autism, but he was just a shy, timid little boy who would talk and do things little kids do when he wanted to.

Having five children wasn't easy, but they had time for all of them; for Hamish when he needed to see a doctor and check on his ear, for Sophia when she had a part in some school play, for Lock when played the violin at Nativity plays, for Benedict when he joined the rugby team and for David when he had another new jigsaw puzzle he needed help with.

"... maybe we'll see each other soon." Jane bent down and pressed a kiss to the stone with her son's name engraved on it. "Good bye, my baby. Look after us, will you?"

He was expecting her to be there but not when he walked into the place. Little attention he paid to her words. He knew she talked to their son's grave but, for no apparent reason, he found no interest in hearing them. Suddenly, thirty six years together seemed something from another life. He knew that in any other time, before, he would have wanted to hear her words and look at her deeply, at her face, her hands, the clothes she was wearing and the way she brushed her hair in order to deduce things and know. But this time, this time he didn't want to know a thing about her.

Something made him feel nothing for the woman standing before him. And that same woman standing before him had given him six children and thirty six years of her life. Jane Watson bore his children, slept next to him and honoured him for thirty six years but he could no longer respect that. The vows the had once pronounced meant nothing to him now.

Because now he had already broken them.

When she turned and he met her blue eyes, he didn't feel love any more. She said no words and left. On her hand, she had five more roses he knew were bound to be left at her father, her sister, her mother, Mrs Hudson's graves and even that child's she bore and died inside her many years ago. Sherlock was torn between all the things he and Jane had to go through together and what he felt at that moment. Of course he still remembered that night when he almost killed her and Hamish, who was a baby inside her. No one and nothing could possibly made him erase that from his mind palace. But he felt nothing now and he knew he just couldn't help it.

Ever since David died, it became impossible to live in Baker Street, love his wife and sleep next to her every night. Her constant grieve made him sick. He knew they had lost a child and it hurt him as much as it hurt Jane, but they had five more who needed them and she didn't seem to understand that. He took several cases, he started smoking again and they had the most stupidest arguments all the time. There was no day in which they wouldn't fight: Jane would cry and he would shout he was growing tired of it. Jane would kick him out their room and he would sleep on the sofa.

Suddenly, the sore feeling inside his chest became a dull pain. The constant rows, arguments and shouting, plus the noise of the tea cups thrown to the sink made Jane ill, and neither of them cared if their daughter Eleanor, the only child left at home, was present.

Just two days ago he left the home in which he had lived for more than thirty years and where he loved Jane, raised six children and lived countless moments all together as a family. He didn't miss the clothes, the old skull, his lab equipment, the eyeballs left inside the fridge or the forgotten violin which was surely now covered by a thick layer of dust. What Sherlock missed was his daughter. He wondered if the teenager was washing her teeth before going to bed, if she was doing her homework, if she was eating as she should or if she watched Crimewatch last night.

The only thing Sherlock missed so far was his daughter. And that said something about the situation. It surprised him at the beginning the sudden realisation that that love he felt for Jane Watson, and believed would last forever, was over, long gone from his heart.

Sherlock watched Jane leaving and turned to the grave. He studied it for several seconds, taking the picture in. There were fresh flowers, a ring he knew belonged to his daughter Eleanor and a little medal Benedict once left, one they won at a football tournament when they were mere kids.

He opened his mouth but no words were said. Sherlock wanted to say he was sorry for not caring as much as he should have, for not going to those football matches David won and for not being able to cope with his death. But instead of saying it, he took a long look at his left hand and realised he wasn't wearing his wedding ring. He hadn't been for days now, but he still kept it inside one of his pockets. The detective wanted to say he didn't know how to live the life he had.

The only thing he did was to kneel just close to the grave and press a hand to his lips and then to the cold stone.

Many years ago, he liked to press a kiss to his babies' heads and feel their sweet scent, that scent he wished they always had because he knew he would not be able to bear seeing his children leaving the family home, his side. He liked to scare monsters away, prepare bottles, sing lullabies, tell stories, tell his children the difference between cow and human eyeballs but he knew he would feel pain the day those little babies he nursed and helped with their first steps left the family home to live their lives and own adventures.

But the only scent he felt was a mixture of the sweet perfume Jane left, earth, tree leaves and the roses left.

**Got a nice murder for you, darling.**  
**Woman found dead. No forced doors.**  
**Bring that clever brain of yours.  
VT **

Time to work. The detective stood up, put his phone back to his pocket, turned the collar of his long coat up and left.

* * *

"The door wasn't forced, the victim's key's in the flat. Therefore killer had a spare key." Sherlock confirmed. "She knew him - _he_ had a spare key. We're looking for someone close. A relative I'd say."

"My," Victoria smiled proudly. "You never cease to amaze me, Mr Holmes. You all heard him, we're looking for a relative probably with money problems who wanted this old lady to be dead. I want a list with at least ten possible suspects on my desk in less than an hour." she addressed to her assistants and then turned to the detective once they all left the crime scene. "If it's a relative as you say we must get this finished for lunch. We could grab a bite somewhere."

"Of course it's a relative." He ignored her invitation for lunch and pulled his mobile out and texted his daughter.

Victoria closed the door of the room and threw her arms around the detective's neck. "Where were you this morning? I woke up and you were gone."

"Cemetery."

She was on tip toes when she kissed him, leaving small traces of red lipstick on his full lips. Sherlock let her kiss him and he kissed her back. Soon his long, calloused hands were at her slender waist and he took her sweet scent in, feeling the perfume already familiar. She then slid her hands down his chest, inside his coat and felt his strong muscles relax under her touch. "It's OK, darling." She smiled at him in the very same way she smiled at him the first time they met. "Next time I can go with you if you like."

"No."

She let go of him and rolled her eyes. "Have you picked your clothes?"

"No."

"You know what I think, don't you?"

"Always."

"Well," Victoria said, straightening her shirt. "You'll have to do it sooner or later."

Sherlock looked at the woman he had been sleeping with for months now, maybe a year. Detective Inspector Victoria Trevor. Too clever, too beautiful, too much of everything. The day they met he knew she was special. Too clever. She was too clever. Too clever the woman was, that Sherlock knew he liked her from the beginning. Despite working for the Yard for years and years, and having Greg as Chief Superintendent, who was like a father to Jane, still many DI's didn't trust him fully as they should. The day DI Trevor arrived, she solved two cold cases and caught a killer her predecessor had been looking for for months.

Victoria reminded him of Irene Adler in the sense Victoria, as Irene, had long, dark curly hair she always wore loose. There wasn't anything special about her face really: green eyes, round cheeks, a few freckles, full lips she painted red, and a mole above the left side of her upper lip. She was slender, had long legs everyone could see when she wore pencil skirts and high heels.

Sherlock really liked her. This Trevor woman had been transferred from the countryside. Apparently there had been no criminal cases nor murders unsolved while she was in charge of the police department. Sherlock knew he had more chances to work and have fun. All at the same time.

"We have a killer to catch," Victoria said, taking a last look at the dead body on the floor.

"We?" Sherlock asked, suddenly brought back to reality.

She smiled at him. "Yes. _We_."

* * *

There was a group of around six young girls, all wearing school uniforms, all of them giggling while eating because apparently they fancied the waiter. There was nothing special about them. But yet, Sherlock couldn't help but look because they reminded him of her. Of his daughter. The daughter who told him to fuck off. The daughter he loved with all his heart, his last daughter, who told him she didn't want to see him again.

He felt the pain inside when, yesterday and in this very same restaurant, Eleanor told him she knew all about Hamish, all about him and Victoria and that she would never fall in love because she didn't want to suffer like her mother was.

"Lestrade knows," Victoria said, sipping her wine. "He wants a full report of my duties now that you left his daughter." Sherlock kept his eyes on his phone. Again Eleanor was not replying his texts. "If I ever find out your ex has anything to do with this -"

"Shut up. Lestrade doesn't know anything."

Victoria pursed her lips. "When are you picking up your things?"

"I don't know."

"This is getting really tiresome, Sherlock."

"I've already taken a decision. You know it."

"Really?" Victoria gasped. "Please, tell me."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I've moved in with you."

"No, you didn't. You neither have taken your things nor you have asked for a divorce, haven't you?"

"That's not your business."

"Yes it is." Victoria said defiantly. "It is because we're together. I had to put up with a lot of things for a almost a year, if you don't remember. I had to keep this secret because you didn't want to hurt her, I -" She looked away and then her green eyes returned to his grey's. "I want to think I was something more than the lover you went to almost every night when she kicked you out of her bed."

She stood up, took her purse and left.

* * *

The first time Sherlock visited Victoria's flat and slept with her, he returned to Baker Street the following day and found his daughter cooking for him.

"Hi dad!" Eleanor greeted him with dinner she had prepared herself. "Look! Cooked some curry!"

Sherlock managed a tight smile. "Jane?"

"Sleeping," Eleanor said. "Said she was tired."

While eating Eleanor told her father all about her day, about school, about her friends and about her science exams coming soon. He liked watching his daughter talking about her day, making gestures with her hands, the deep furrow between her eyebrows when she spoke about that teacher she disliked and the way she braided her hair all the time. Eleanor reminded him of Jane because his daughter, contrary to his other children, had inherited Jane's looks and features. She had blonde hair, blue eyes and she was short while all the others had dark curly hair, strange eyes and were all tall like him. Even Sophia who was adopted looked a bit like him.

Some time later the detective found himself sitting on the sofa, toying with the strings of his violin and staring into the darkness of the living room when she joined him.

Jane sat next to him and rested her head on his shoulder. "Case?" she asked. He knew she was demanding explanations. She wanted to know where he had been to last night when they had a fight and he didn't return for almost a day.

Sherlock remained silent.

Jane leaned forward and took his hand, his left hand. She pressed a kiss to his knuckles and smiled at him. "Missed you."

"Let's go to sleep."

Once in bed, Jane rested her head on Sherlock's chest and pressed a kiss to the skin there. "I love you."

"I love you."

Three days later, they had a fight and he found himself sleeping next to Victoria the following morning. This second time in her bed made Sherlock like her more. She was wild, she never asked him what was he doing there. It seemed she knew what was happening but never needed, or maybe she didn't want to know what he was really going on between him and his wife.

The age difference never bothered them. She was almost twenty years his junior and she once told him, jokingly, that she could be his daughter. Sherlock never said anything, but found himself being more attentive with Victoria. He liked hearing her comments and opinions about cases, about crime in London. Those nights he said he was working, when he was actually at Victoria's place, he liked to, once they had sex, to press kisses to her neck while she told him about all the cases she solved before joining the force in London.

A month later they talked about it. Victoria said it wasn't fair for him to stay with someone he didn't love any more. Sherlock said he had a daughter and that he didn't want to hurt his wife.

Six months later Jane paid him a surprise visit. They were at the Yard and this time there was paperwork to be done. Even though they had always been careful about their jobs, Sherlock knew Jane had her suspicions.

Sherlock knew Jane was not blind.

But he couldn't just tell her yet.

Not now. Not like this.

He introduced both women. Victoria smiled at Jane and offered coffee. Jane said she had to see Greg and made her own way to his office.

"She knows," Victoria commented once they were alone in her office. "The way she looked at me."

"She _suspects_," Sherlock corrected her.

Victoria raised an eyebrow. "When are you telling her?"

"Soon."

"Ha. You said so _months_ ago."

And with that, Victoria took a folder and headed to Lestrade's office. She walked in and lied about needing the new Chief Superintendent to take a look at some papers.

"Nice to meet you Mrs Holmes." Victoria said, smiling to Jane and leaving.

* * *

The night he went back home, Eleanor was nowhere to be seen and his wife was sitting in front of the fireplace, with a book on her lap and a cup of tea in one hand.

The silence between them was deep, suffocating.

"Mycroft and Anthea invited us for dinner tonight."

"I'm not going."

"I know," Jane said, her eyes leaving her book, her hands placing the cup onto the table and an almost soundless sigh. "Me neither."

Sherlock looked at the dark staircase that led to his daughter's room and wondered where she had gone when Jane walked past him, heading to the kitchen.

"Lock's in town. They went out."

"Where to?"

"Oh. You care where your daughter is now?"

"Jane -"

"Is there anything you want to tell me?" Jane asked, his blue orbs on his. For a moment she looked at him determined, almost accepting whatever he had to tell her. But then, her eyes betrayed her and a tear was threatening to go out in plain sight.

The detective noticed something but he couldn't know what that was. He just couldn't lay a finger on it. Something wrong was going on and he knew it. Jane was nothing like she used to. She looked paler, thinner. Suddenly she looked older, tired. There were bags under her eyes and he could see she had been crying. She was not wearing another hideous jumper but a worn nightdress, long, that instead of clinging to her body hang loose.

"No."

He watched her placing the empty cup on the sink and heading to their room.

That night he decided to sleep on the sofa. His daughter never returned home that night and several months later Sherlock was to know Eleanor lied, that Lock had never been in town for a night and that they never went out as she said but she actually spent the night wandering around the city, around those places she knew were safe and where her parents would never find her. Sherlock didn't realise his daughter knew all about his nights and days away. Eleanor, his last child, that daughter he liked spoiling because she was his last and because he loved her with all his heart, was the one suffering the most.

He couldn't conceive any sleep and Victoria's words kept him awake. He had to tell her. He had to choose. He had to concentrate and think of what he really wanted. Who he really loved. Sherlock was torn between his family and that woman he liked. Because he liked Victoria but he wasn't sure if he loved her as much as he had once loved Jane. And he just couldn't feel anything right now. He didn't know if he still loved Jane. Because something was keeping him in Baker Street and he just couldn't tell what was it.

He had always blindfolded himself and said he couldn't break up his marriage and leave his daughter. It was true that he loved his daughter, the last child living with him, and he could not bear to look at her crying because of something he did.

But something was still keeping him tied to a marriage he thought was already broken.

Jane. Jane had given him everything he ever wanted and everything he never thought he would ever want. As a teenager, and before knowing Jane and loving her, he never imagined himself with a baby. He never imagined singing lullabies, preparing bottles, changing nappies, taking his children to the park or to have an ice cream. He never thought he would love someone. Sherlock never thought he would end up having six children and grandchildren.

Life proved him wrong and at the age of eighteen he was expecting a child that, despite not being biologically his, he loved as if it were. Years later he welcomed a second boy, then adopted a girl, then became the proud father of two twins who despite looking the same, were completely different. And when all those children were growing up, when one of them was almost an adult, two were teenagers and the twins were hitting puberty a little blonde girl came to their lives. When his eldest was old enough to give him a grandchild, Sherlock had a baby. Jane gave him another baby.

And now, he didn't know what he felt.

Sherlock couldn't believe what he felt. He just couldn't remember when was the moment he stopped caring for that woman he chose many years ago as the only woman in his life. Sherlock wanted to remember when was the last time he kissed her lips, touched her skin or said "I love you."

But he could remember when they started drifting apart. When their son David was killed he admitted he wasn't there when Jane needed him. He was suffering as much as Jane was, but he could tell her pain was different. David had always been her weakness and he had always been closer to her. Sherlock knew it was different because she had carried him inside her. But he had also been part of the creation of their child. But Sherlock had always taken his son for granted. He was closer to Benedict, and, even though he loved all his children equally, he just could never have the same relationship with David like the one he had with Benedict.

Time passed and Jane kept on crying. She kept on visiting their son's grave. She kept herself attached to him and she just couldn't let him go.

Sherlock couldn't stand it any more.

* * *

It is said the worst thing a woman can do is to compete against another woman.

And Victoria Trevor had to compete against Jane Watson. Any one could say she had the advantage of being younger. And she thought so too. She also shared a job with Sherlock. Both liked crimes, blood, catching criminals, interrogatories. Both were cold-minded, a bit selfish too. Victoria thought she had everything Sherlock could need.

But it seemed to be never enough.

At the very beginning Victoria thought of their relationship to be only carnal, sexual. They were two people who could sleep together when they felt like and nothing else. But time passed and it was clear Sherlock was not going to her place only to have sex with her. Some days, if it was her free day and she was not going anywhere, Sherlock stayed with her until, Victoria noticed, someone texted him. It took Victoria a couple of weeks until he told her the truth: he had constants rows with his wife and he just couldn't stand it any more. Victoria also learned he had five children, that one had died, that his eldest was a doctor, that one of them was an actress, that one lived abroad and that his youngest was a sixteen year old girl.

It has to be said that Victoria knew that he was married and that he had children. She was not stupid and she knew what his condition was when they started seeing each other.

But it has to be said, also, that Victoria really liked and cared about Sherlock. That's why, for months, she kept their relationship secret. No one, but no one, not even her best friend, knew that she was sleeping with the great detective Sherlock Holmes.

Victoria knew when he was coming. He usually texted her or she simply knew. She liked cooking for him, trying new recipes, try her hand at new things even. She liked to receive him with all the things she knew he didn't have at home, with kisses, with love. Victoria knew Sherlock wasn't a man who would sit with her and watch a film so she sat with him, prepared tea, asked him about his old cases, the ones he remembered the most and so on.

Victoria knew Sherlock liked their living arrangement. As soon as he crossed her door he would kick off his shoes, take off his coat and jacket, undone the first buttons of his shirt and sat on her big sofa and crawl a cup of hot tea with his hands while he told her about his old cases as if they were stories meant to make one fall asleep. Victoria knew he did it that way because he was a dad and he had already raised six children.

However, one day Sherlock stayed with her but they didn't have sex. He just lay down next to her and slept. And before closing down his eyes, he tossed to her side and hugged her tightly. Victoria felt his long hands on her waist, his nose smelling her hair and his soft breathing on her neck and nothing else. For a weekend he lay down next to her during the nights, lacing his fingers with hers and pressing sweet kisses to her neck. Victoria memorised every wrinkle on Sherlock's face (that were not many), touched every scar in his arm - those scars left when cocaine ruled his world, his mind. Victoria liked touching those dark curls mixed with some white hairs.

And that's when Victoria decided she could no longer be "the other one".

"Move in with me."

Sherlock looked at her but said nothing.

"Move in with me," Victoria repeated. "I don't see why we should keep on like this."

"Like what?"

"Like this. You living with someone you don't love and me being the other one."

"I've got a daughter -"

"She's sixteen, not five." Victoria cut him off. "Old enough to understand."

Sherlock said nothing about it for the rest of the night.

Victoria knew she was competing against Jane Watson. She knew Sherlock was lying when he said he wouldn't leave his house or break his marriage because of his daughter. Sherlock wouldn't leave his house nor break his marriage because of his wife.

Long weeks later, just before it was a year since they were "together", Victoria gave him an ultimatum.

"I'm tired of this Sherlock."

"Of what?"

"This. Tell her."

Sherlock looked at her.

"Tell her."

* * *

"So, what are you doing this summer?" Hamish asked while Jane passed the salad. "Going to the country house?"

Silence.

"I don't think so," Jane said, faking a smile. "I think I'll stay here in London."

"And dad?" Hamish asked his mother.

Jane raised an eyebrow. "Ask him."

"What about you, dad?"

"I find your futile attempt to engage all of us in a conversation quite amusing."

Olivia, Hamish's wife, smiled nervously. "Well, we're going to Spain -"

"No one sitting around this table really cares about your holidays," Sherlock snapped.

Before Hamish could say anything, Jane turned to her husband angrily. "If you're going to talk to your daughter-in-law like that, you'd better leave the table."

"Of course I'm leaving," Sherlock said standing up. "I've got work to do."

"Yes, sure. Don't forget the cigarettes hidden behind the frames on the wall. Oh, and do give DI Trevor my love. You think I'm stupid?" Jane slammed a hand to the table. "I don't need to be Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes to see what's going on!"

Hamish stood up between his mother and his father. "Calm down -"

"Yes, I'm sleeping with her!" Sherlock shouted. "Happy now?"

The detective slammed the door shut and left.

Running down the stairs, he heard his grandson John, a mere five-year-old, asking why his papa Sherlock was angry, Eleanor slamming the door of her room shut and a plate hitting the floor.

* * *

That night he left and Victoria knew it was because his son, the doctor who lived in the North, was coming to town.

Two hours later Sherlock was back to her place.

"I thought you were having dinner with your _family_."

"I told her."

That night, and for some days, Victoria thought she was the owner of Sherlock Holmes' heart.

* * *

When Eleanor arrived at the place his father was already there. He had ordered her favourite, that hamburger she knew he hated. There was also her favourite soda and a chocolate.

She ate and felt his eyes on her. She could tell when her father was trying to deduce her and Eleanor, despite looking so small, short, so naive and innocent, was as clever as her father was and could hide everything she wanted.

Opposite him, Eleanor could read her father and she knew his hair was damp not because of the rain, but because he had a shower. She knew who his father was living with and she knew his father was simply being an idiot.

"You know, dad, I remember you telling me about your cases when I was little," Eleanor said, taking a sip of her coke and looking at the people around them, not really at her father who had a cigarette lit between his lips. "And I've always wanted to be a detective. But you know what? I'd rather die before being a piece of shit like you."

"Eli -"

"I haven't finished. I always dreamt of finding a man like you. Because to me you and mum were the perfect married couple. I wanted to be like mum too... cook, wash and do all that stuff. I think she had always done too much for you. I thought you good... a very good person. But you're just like the others..."

That hurt.

"I'm sorry," was the only thing her father said.

The teenager finished braiding her long golden hair, stood up, took her school bag and raised an eyebrow to her father. "You should apologise to mum, not to me."

Sherlock said nothing.

"I know what happened between you two when Hamish was born," Eleanor said bitterly. "I told mum she was a stupid for forgiving you."

Eleanor has never talked to him like that. She knew her father loved her deeply and that her words where hurting him.

But inside, Eleanor wanted her father to suffer as much as she was suffering.

And as much as her mother was suffering.

Her mother said they were divorcing. She said she could stay with whoever she wanted, that she was not forcing her to stay with her. Eleanor knew she was saying that because she loved his father. But Eleanor could not see herself living with his father and another woman. He couldn't just imagine living away from her mother too.

When she asked her mother if she was okay, Jane said everything was fine, that she was going to be fine and that life goes on.

At night Eleanor watched her mother sleeping on the sofa in the living room and their parent's bedroom remained untouched for days and days.

His father called her and texted her but she refused to talk to him. To Eleanor his father was dead. That same father she loved, admired and wished she could have for all her life was now gone.

* * *

Jane knew she had to be strong because of her youngest daughter who was a sixteen-year-old girl. She knew Eleanor was not a little child who she could hold in her arms any more. But what Jane knew was that Eleanor was suffering. Her daughter was quite good at hiding things. She never saw her daughter crying since Sherlock left the family home. Sometimes Jane was relieved, but sometimes she feared how her daughter would go on with her life as if nothing had happened.

What Jane did, since she knew Eleanor was not talking to her father, was to tell her everything was going to be okay because despite not being together both still and would always love her.

Knowing that a divorce was coming soon, Jane told Eleanor she could go and live with whoever she wanted because she was free to choose.

"You're already a big girl," Jane said, free of tears in her eyes, but smiling calmly. "You can go and live with your father or stay here."

"I want to stay here."

Jane looked away and realised Sherlock's old violin was still there over the table and that she hadn't noticed it before. "Do as you like, Eli. Everything's gonna be okay. We're not the first nor the last couple divorcing."

Even during those moments they shared, when Eleanor helped her cleaning or cooking, Jane would tell her stories about her childhood, about her mother and her father, who divorced when she was little. Jane spared her daughter all those nasty details about hearing her parents arguing in front of her. But soon Jane realised she was being an hypocrite because she once swore she would never argue with Sherlock in front of the children because she knew how much it hurt her when her parents did the same. But they did it. And they did it in front of Eleanor who was a teenage girl whom Jane knew was suffering.

But then, Jane knew she wasn't the one breaking her marriage vows. Even thought Sherlock made her look like a fool, going out with a woman younger than her and in front of all the people who knew them, Jane never said a bad thing about him.

At night, when Eleanor was already sleeping in her room, Jane would walk all around the large flat Sherlock and her had lived in for more than thirty years. They had modified it so many times. Every time a new child was coming a new room had to be made or two of their children had to share a room to give their new brother or sister some space.

Baker Street had always been home and it had always been full of children, laughter, noises. Jane leaned against the windows of the living room and closed her eyes, remembering Sherlock teaching their son Lock how to play the violin. It had been months since she last heard someone playing that instrument she loved but never got to learn how to play. Jane remembered the only thing that would calm every children inside her was Sherlock playing the violin. Every time a child kicked far too much and the pain was too much to bear, Sherlock played his violin and the baby inside her stopped kicking.

Jane looked at the table and realised there was dust covering Sherlock's papers, old notes about old, forgotten cases, his violin, his favourite pen. Everything was still there.

Calmly, and not crying, Jane went to her room, looked for all the suitcases she could find and started packing Sherlock's clothes. She folded every single piece of clothing and placed them inside the suitcases. She found three boxes and packed all the things she had found on the table, and finally, the violin. It took her some time until she could place everything downstairs, near the front door.

Sitting on the staircase, with her eyes on the front door, Jane wondered what had gone wrong between the two of them. She still loved him like the first day and she missed him. She missed his presence, his scent, his voice, his smiles, his hands, his lips. Jane knew she had not been the same since their son David was killed, but when she needed her husband the most, Sherlock hadn't been there.

Their son's death wasn't an excuse. It destroyed them and neither of them had been strong enough to overcome that pain.

With her eyes still on the front door, Jane gave up. She knew Sherlock was not coming home any more. Baker Street wasn't his home any more. She wasn't his any more. Sherlock wasn't hers either. Jane turned and went upstairs.

Upstairs she found the place different and sat on her chair, being a terrible thing to do because in front of her was Sherlock's chair and she couldn't remember when was the last time he sat there.

There was a now old picture of them over the mantelpiece, just taken the day of their second wedding. Both were smiling. Both looked happy.

Jane closed her eyes and wished Sherlock, wherever he was right now, would never forget how much she loved him.

And the following day, when that pain she'd been feeling in her body was now worrying her, her doctor told her something she wished was a lie.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Holmes. You've got cancer."

None of her children was to know.

No one would ever know she was dying.

* * *

"Yes, Eleanor told me. We skyped last night," Hamish said once his father had taken off his coat, his gloves and was crawling a cup of tea with both hands. "Are you seeing someone?"

Sherlock knew that Hamish could not deduce, but he wasn't stupid either. "Yes."

Hamish sighed and his eyes focused on his son, who was calmly playing with his toys in the living room. He said nothing because he didn't have anything to say.

"Aren't you going to say anything?"

"Mum taught me not to judge people."

That hurt.

"We're all adults but it's Eli I'm worried about," Hamish sipped more of his tea. "And mum. Eli said she's not well."

Sherlock said nothing.

"I'm going to London next week. I'll bring Eli and mum so they stay here with me... all the time they need." Hamish hesitated for a moment. "Just... go, take your things and stay away from them for a while."

"Eleanor is my daughter and she's sixteen. She's still a child and I've got rights."

"Dad, mum's not keeping Eli from you. Mum gave her the freedom to choose. It's Eli the one who doesn't want to see you."

* * *

Victoria Trevor asked for a transference the very same day Sherlock Holmes told her he never loved her.

That very same day she packed her things and left London. She knew fighting for Sherlock Holmes was already a lost battle.

"I'm sorry," he said, giving her the copy of the key of her flat, the one he had had for almost a year. "Good bye, Detective Inspector Trevor."

* * *

A week after he left, Sherlock returned to Baker Street only to find his things already packed and waiting for him downstairs. As it was early in the morning, he knew Eleanor was at school and Jane would be alone.

He found her sleeping on the sofa.

By just looking around he could tell she had been sleeping on the sofa since he left. Jane looked fragile, she was very thin and suddenly she had more wrinkles around her face. She was pale.

There was a cup with already cold tea on the coffee table as well as a medical book and a little bottle of pills to sleep. Jane only used them when she couldn't sleep or when she was ill. There were seven missing. She had been taking one per day since he left.

In the fridge Sherlock found rests of take away. Jane had never been so fond of take away, she preferred to cook, but now there were individual portions - only Eleanor ate. That explained why Jane looked to thin.

The whole house was so silent. Sherlock couldn't remember when was the last time there were all six children in the house. Looking around he recalled the days when Hamish and Lock were two kids who liked to play football, when Sophie was a little three-year-old girl running around the flat naked, when the twins started walking together, when Benedict said 'fuck' for the first time and David 'I love you'. Or when Eli told him she wanted to be a detective like him.

The house started to be full of children again when Hamish had his baby, John, and when Sophie had her baby Henry and finally Lock, who with the support of his husband decided to have a baby, Catalina, who was a mix of the two of them.

It was so silent.

"Everything's downstairs," Jane said while sitting on the sofa and rubbing her eyes. "You can look around and check I haven't forgotten anything."

And with that, she wrapped herself with her gown and headed to what used to be their room. But Sherlock followed her and embraced her. He wrapped his long arms around her figure and inhaled her sweet scent, her perfume, her own aroma. He pressed a kiss to her hair, to her forehead until he could finally meet her thin, white lips he had missed so much.

"What are you doing?" Jane said, trying to fight him, but allowing him to kiss him altogether because she had missed him as much as he had missed her. "Get out! Take your things and leave me alone!"

The detective kissed her passionately. "I'm sorry."

"Leave, Sherlock."

"You're the only woman I love," he said, looking into her crying eyes. "I know I've made a mistake... but I need you more than anything in this world because without you my life has no sense."

Jane cried. She sobbed against his chest. Sherlock only embraced even tighter and pressed kisses to her face. He noticed she was so light in his arms, so fragile.

It worried him.

They made love for the first time in months. Sherlock was tender, soft, loving. Jane allowed Sherlock to touch her, to feel her, to make her feel loved again.

They talked for long hours. Both admitted their faults, both admitted their mistakes and both cried. Jane said she had been wrong. Sherlock said it was all his fault.

Without hesitating, Jane looked into Sherlock's eyes and remembered that night when many, many years ago she was a mere teenager when she told him she was pregnant and that she didn't know what to do. "I'm dying, Sherlock."

Sherlock said nothing for a moment. "What?"

"I've got cancer."

"No."

"There's nothing to be done, really -"

"No -"

"Sherlock..." Jane smiled bitterly. "I'm happy you're here, with me. I really am. You can't imagine how much I needed you..."

Sherlock cupped her face and kissed her tears. "I'm so sorry."

* * *

Nothing was the same after his mistake. An affair cost him the last years of Jane's life. He was not with her when she went to the doctor because she didn't want him to. He no longer lived in Baker Street but alone. They didn't divorce, but Jane said she could no longer live with him.

And even though Eleanor forgave him, nothing was ever the same.

The detective rang the bell and Eleanor opened the front door for him. He smiled an honest smile, but Eleanor merely nodded and, as he walked in, she walked out, looking at her mobile and checking she was not late.

"Aren't you staying for dinner?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm staying at a friend's."

"Your mother?"

"Upstairs."

His daughter left and Sherlock went upstairs. In the living room he found the table already set. Jane just came from her room.

"Hi."

"You look beautiful tonight."

She smiled. "Thank you. It's just a dress."

After dinner, Jane put the kettle on and with a lost look, she realised the inevitable.

"Let's go to the country house."

"Now?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

After two years living apart, after two years seeing Jane taking pills that did nothing to her and that only made her cancer worst, one night she confessed him she wanted to die in their country house.

Now the moment had come.

She pressed a shy kiss to his lips. "Yes."

"We need to pack."

"We won't need anything."

"Please," he almost begged, with little tears in his eyes. "Jane don't -"

She wiped his tears. "You have to let me go, Sherlock."


End file.
